


Starlight

by Vodkassassin



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Emrys over Merlin, Magic, Merlin was raised in a village full of magical people, Protective Arthur, Uther and Emrys friendship, druid-raised Merlin AU, emrys AU, magic culture, magical people have a culture, prankster warlock, they don't know he's a warlock until later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 15:12:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12484524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vodkassassin/pseuds/Vodkassassin
Summary: “The world needs a light to banish the darkness. To smile and laugh and love again, you'll need to rid it of fear and hate and depression. Uther, he is so full of all those things... Is that not a prime place to begin your mission?”“He'll kill me,” he whispered.“Not unless you kill the hate first.” The dragon told him, eyes dancing. “You kill the hate, banish the darkness... Then, you can count Camelot as a victory.”





	Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> It takes a village to raise a warlock.  
> In this case, Emrys is the warlock, raised in a quaint homestead hidden in the wilderness and populated entirely by magical people, be they Druids, witches, sorcerers, or even alchemists.  
> His comming-of-age arrives with a surprise, of the scaly and fire-breathing legend kind.  
> Emrys has always known he had a destiny awaiting him. He just didn't think he'd have to face it this soon. 
> 
> No beta! This has been sitting in my docs since I wrote it back when I was, what, 13, 14? So yeah, a while. Don't have much more for it but I think I could've convinced to continue it I suppose ^^

There was a time when magic was loved by the world. The lands inhabited by children of the mother goddess; given the gift of the spirit and the powers of the elements. The soil was fertile, the fruit was plentiful, and the rivers rushing with crystal clear waters and colorful aquatic life, so beautiful it would take one's breath away. The forests teeming with game—never was any hunter dissatisfied, returning from every party with guaranteed meals for their families in the weeks to come.  
Summers were always musical, the grasses lush green and softer than the clouds could even appear to be, the soft breezes soothing to the skin during days long spent under the revitalizing rays of a golden sun. The springs gushed forth with water so clear even the women did not fear jumping in and splashing about with their friends. Springs were a time of warm showers and grand feasts; games of tag in the puddles and never was there a moment of quiet. Autumn brought sunsets that glowed with youth, like the birth of a roaring fire. Leafs in all vibrant colors across the plains, and always time for a child to jump in them. Winter saw the plains white and fluffy and pleasantly chilly; indoors was cheerful while hot beverages were experimented with until just the right flavor brought a welcomed sleepy feeling.  
A mother never had need to worry, her children were safe, protected by the mountains and the wind, the sun and the stars. And children there were; in twos and threes and sometimes even fours. The men had no need to search for a wife, plentiful was the love that whispered through the air, and many couples met one another in their early childhoods. The elderly watched the little ones play with satisfaction reeling through their beings. A good life they've lived, coursing the waters and letting the inner fire blaze with no less passion than even Alaunus bore.  
Druids walked free and the creatures of the land held no fear of approaching it's home keepers. The ladies of the seas and the men in the stars kept avid watch and never hid a smile, the loving spark in their eyes nor the fond tilt of their lips. The tree people played with the youthful and the boulders and rocks were gentle with their touch; waters like glass and even the barley fields looked like precious metal.  
Everything held an inner glow; it's life, it's spirit, it's power and it's love. And no one was afraid to let it show.

At least, that's what the stories said.  
And oh, he so wished for them to be true.  
Was there ever a time where just anyone and everyone could love without fear, embrace without hate and walk around with, not a cold, jagged knife, but a flower and fruit hidden in their palms?  
Had there truly been a time where the mountains were warm and white and soft and helpful? Where the rivers were gentle and considerate, flowing around you like a mother embracing her offspring, and the grass so green and lush that even an emerald would be jealous—oh, but in such a time, no jewel would feel any need for envy, sparkling with hidden joy and dazzling even the stars themselves.  
No, the earth was dusty and dull. It was burdening and heavy and desperate; gasping for breath when there was only so much air; greedy, spiteful, it laughed and mocked and swore; rough, it pulled and tugged and ripped every tear from your eyes until you had no more to give—coveting everything you owned when you had nothing indeed.  
The world was cold and full of circles. Once there may have been a time when circles were good omens. Marriage, youth, foreverness. Love, compassion, fondness.  
Not hate.  
But hate was there. It was poison, swift and direct like a viper. Painful in ways not even the hornet's sting could be; hotter than a dragon's breath; colder than the chilling bite of the harshest winter.  
Hate was a circle, perhaps the ugliest of all. Envy was a circle; nothing was good enough for the greedy hearts of men. One hates you, you hate another who hates the sister of the first one. It was round, always coming back to bite you in the back and you would never know because you are too blind on the hate you hold for the other.  
He hated circles.  
Even the seasons came in one, a cycle of one hardship after another. Summer was flames and waves of heat that rolled across the plains, pounding into your head until you could not think at all. It clawed at your skin until it was peeled off, layer by layer, flesh around you like a molting serpent. Fall was certainly fall; dragging you down into its depth and all the world decaying around you, the scent of Death himself permeating the air, even as you had no food to fill your aching stomach and even less water to wet your desert crusty throat. And winter—oh, was it sober. Direct and cruel and mocking. It chilled your bones so cold that they were dry and brittle, weaker than the twisting twigs of the pine trees. It stabbed at your heart and your soul and your mind and your stomach—aching, freezing, killing. It spared not even the smallest infant, nor the most innocent fawn. Spring came soon after, torrents of water crashing down from the skies and choking you until all breath was for naught—filling your lungs and moulding those dry and brittle bones, snapping and turning to paste.  
And then it was right back to summer—heat, fire, burning. A circle.  
It was the way the world worked. It burned you, pushed you into the abyss for you to claw your way out; then it froze you and thinned you and stretched you like the pelt of a skinned deer, until it finally ripped you apart and drowned you. And the process started again.  
Starving children in the streets, you couldn't escape them. Evilness written across the hearts of men with tiny little knives, the women with spite and envy in their eyes. Life was a ladder, and you spent it trying to either climb as high as you possibly could or clinging to your rung with the desperate hopelessness that came from an entire childhood of knowing there was nothing for you.  
Even the air tasted like smoke and brimstone, filling your lungs with nightmares and terrors and screams.  
“Your mind is certainly a dark place, little fox.”  
He blinked the glazed look from his blue eyes and glanced up, offering a sheepish smile. “And sharpened to a point, I made sure. Still, no mind is free of the shadows, teacher—not even yours.”  
His mentor tilted his head forward in consent, unable to truly give a word of protest; if he had, he would have been lying, and lies were not received kindly in their small forest village. “No mind is impervious to the sun either, even if it must speak through the pinpricks of light that are it's star children.”  
The young warlock pursed his lips, then sighed and leaned back against the trunk of the willow tree. He let his head fall back and stared through the branches, trying to catch a glimpse of the sky—and the aforementioned stars, which had began to appear more dull as the nights came and went. A moment of silence passed, and he heard a silent breath. The dry grass next to him rustled, his teacher resting his own shoulder against the willow.  
“What are you thinking about, Emrys, to put you into such a somber mood?” Tremaine asked him, dark eyes glinting in interest.  
Emrys wasn't usually so quiet, really. He was actually an outrageously cheerful adolescent. He was bright and kind and happy, and loved to smile. The rest of the village sometimes called him Seren, or star; he was just like them too. Bright and shining; he would guide anyone through the darkness and lead them to safety. Emrys was compassionate, understanding and warm like the sun.  
But sometimes, he was like this. Like the sun on a cloudy day right before a thunderstorm. Hidden from sight—you still knew it was there because the day was not shrouded in darkness and the light had to be coming from somewhere; but it was not as bright or warm and you couldn't see it and it made you feel so lost—  
Alaunus once, long ago—the very same sun, of prophecy and healing and careful precision—spoke one such song of the future, about Emrys. Emrys, the gem, the light, the beacon of hope for the dark world. He was destined to secure the earth from the dusty tomb in which it had carved a hole for itself; a shadowed tomb so dark and cold and full of the bones of hatred. Emrys would rid it of the dust and decimate those bones. He was to break the circle—and circles were never meant to be broken. But this time, even Alaunus and his sisters had agreed. This cycle was to not only be severed, but shattered.  
And Emrys was the one who would do it.  
Tremaine had always felt pity for Emrys, deep down in his heart. He never spoke it aloud, and tried to keep it off his face—Emrys would see it in his eyes, and would definitely not appreciate the sentiment. Emrys didn't like to be pitied. Pity was for the hopeless and helpless.  
And Emrys so believed in hope. He embodied it, let it shine from his cerulean eyes and glow beneath his sun-kissed skin. It was in the way he walked—with a confident step and nothing would keep him back; in the way he spoke, so brightly and careful not to hurt; even in the way he breathed, slowly and calmly and so grateful to the air that even the wind spirits adored him.  
Nor was he helpless. Rather, he was helpful, to anyone in need. He disliked seeing others hurt, seeing them wounded or teary-eyed. Emrys did not like to watch people cry. He had it in his head that no one should ever have need to cry. He'd do almost anything to keep all eyes dry and smiling.  
'The One to save, the One of hope; brought by lightning...' Tremaine shook his head. Indeed.  
“Teacher?”  
He blinked, looking straight into two blue stars—Emrys' eyes. He gave a sudden, breathy laugh, realizing he'd let his mind drift off—again. “I apologize, I was somewhere else.”  
Emrys huffed, crossing his arms. “Typical. You ask me a question and then don't even listen for the answer.”  
“Ah, but you didn't give one,” the elder said, mouth twitching upwards. Emrys waved his hand dismissively.  
“Regardless of whether I answered or not!” The young teen shook his head, sun-bleached hair falling once again into his eyes. His brow of similar coloring twitched, and he reached up to tie the snowy strands back with a leather band that had previously adorned his wrist. “Teacher, you're not a very good role model, you know.”  
Tremaine rolled his eyes in exasperation and ran his hand through his student's hair, grinning at the yelp his efforts received. “I've taught you all you know, and this is how you repay me? With insults and mockery...” He shook his head.  
“Lies,” Emrys slapped his hand away, pulling out the leather band and trying again. “Celebri and Mitchell have taught me plenty. And I've learned a lot on my own as well, so you can't pull that card on me anymore.”  
The young adult's smile faltered, and he leaned back with a sigh. Emrys was correct; other's had influenced the child's progress as well. Soon, very soon, Emrys would be going off on his own to—well, who knows where? Emrys was spontaneous and such a risk-taker. He loved the thrill of exciting things. The point was, Tremaine wouldn't be there to protect him then. Something could very well happen, and he wouldn't be there to stop it.  
Sudden warmth enveloped him, and he glanced down just as Emrys' head settled against his chest. The teen locked his arms around his teacher, tugging him closer. “I see that look in your eyes. Stop worrying so, teacher. I can take care of myself now, I'm almost an adult!”  
“Six years is an almost now, is it?” The raven-haired man raised an eyebrow. Even so, he returned the embrace, grateful; Emrys always knew what to say, and he was so gifted at reading people.  
“I'm fourteen summers—well, fifteen, if you count my birth...” Emrys added mischieviously, releasing him and shifting back. The boy stretched his arms out and reached his hands up toward the willow tree's branches above their heads.  
“Which we don't, so fourteen it is.” Tremaine let a breath of exasperation out, pulling a tattered leaf from his wild nest of hair. Emrys was always so eager to grow up. He valued the freedom of childhood in a way other children didn't, but that didn't stop even the young warlock from wishing for the attractive privileges bestowed upon the older people. Children just didn't understand that the adults had to take care of themselves, too. Being a child was not such captivity, and most elders wished for the casual playfulness of their younger years to return to them once they realized as much.  
Still, by village standards, Emrys was right. Once a child was fourteen years of age, they were given the responsibilities of an adult villager, even if they weren’t viewed as a true adult until they reached their twentieth summer. Adolescents could leave the village on their own and go anywhere, but they had set limitations and rules given to them by their guardians—in Emrys' case, that was Tremaine, his teacher, and his caretaker, Mels—and they had to return to the village every month to check in. Once they reached their nineteenth summer, they spent six months under the apprenticeship of a village elder before they were appointed to the rank of 'adult' in the eyes of the villagers. The next six months were usually spent either seeking a career or settling into the throes of adulthood.  
“I'm finally old enough to be by myself, at least,” Emrys retorted, as if reading Tremaine’s thoughts. The man's lips twitched downward. “And I've been thinking of... well, I thought I'd go out of the village for a while—”  
Tremaine's heart felt heavier, all of a sudden. The image of a tiny Emrys with teary-eyes and a sprained ankle flashed through his mind, but he shook it away, glancing down at his student. “Why?”  
Blue eyes regarded him thoughtfully. “I want to see what's out there. I know the dangers, teacher, you've taught me well. I've been in this village my whole life, though. It isn't that I don't love it—I do, with all my being—but I... I am curious to see what's out there.”  
Tremaine groaned, hitting the back of his head on the willow's trunk roughly. “Wanderlust,” He muttered. He sat forward and examined his student carefully.  
“You'd been waiting for yesterday for a long while now, hadn't you?” After all, the day before had been Emrys birthday; the summer solstice, the day of golden skies. The longest and generally warmest day of the year.  
Emrys' cheeks pinked slightly and he glanced down, absently plucking a blade of grass from it’s rest in the soil. “Well, yes. I'm so curious, teacher. I've only really heard stories and such, never seen it for myself. I... I need to know what it's like! It's this burning in my chest.”  
“Definitely wanderlust,” Tremaine sighed, bringing up a hand to cover his eyes. “Why don't you go and help old dear Narsimee with her herb-gathering—you know how her joints have been, lately. We'll talk more about this over dinner.”  
The teen groaned, but got to his feet nonetheless. “I'm going,” he told Tremaine, turning on his heel to part the branches of the willow tree. “I know you'll be worried, but I think that's good. You wouldn't worry if you didn't care. But I'm old enough to take responsibility of myself now, and I am going, and I'll see the world and meet new people and have friends and make them smile. So, just have some trust in me, alright?”  
The elder male blinked his eyes rapidly as the afternoon sun pierced through the previously shady hide-away. Once his vision cleared, all he saw were the willow's branches swaying back to their place, and no student of his in sight.  
He bit his lip and brought his knees to his chest, resting his forehead against them. “Alright.”

~ | giving, helpful, determined | ~

“Beautiful Narsimee, your eyes shine like clean-cut diamonds,” Emrys called out cheerfully to the aged grandmother, who was tending to the tidy patches of agrimony, which was used in healing and dream rituals. She looked up and smiled lovingly at him, teeth gleaming. “How goes your evening, elder mother?”  
“Charming as always, Alkanet,” she replied, using her nickname for him. Alkanet was another herb, used in purifying and protection spells. It was also burned as incense to replace negativity with positivity. Narsimee thought it represented him well, for some reason. “Come closer; be a dear and help an old woman out.”  
Emrys smiled and leaped over the small stream that ran through the dense meadow clearing, barely half a mile away from the village training grounds. His eyes glowed gold for a moment, and Narsimee handed him the basket he'd just conjured with an amused chuckle.  
“Oh, what Tremaine would be saying if he knew you were using your gift so callously,” she admonished, and he laughed.  
“Callously? I'm just practicing, Narsi! Teacher always tells me I need to.” She patted his almost snowy locks fondly, before turning away to peruse the collection of herbs once more.  
“What are we looking for today?” He asked, leaning over her shoulder curiously.  
She hummed absentmindedly, eyes roaming the meadow. “My basil storage needs replenishing, and little Saleet is sick with the chills again.”  
“So some bergamot, carob and a bit of dogwood then?” He knelt down in the nearby patch of the former and sought out the healthy leaves. With quick, nimble fingers, he was soon moving on toward the upper left of the clearing in search of the dogwood there.  
Narsimee patted his head as he passed her by, and he shot her a small grin. “You were taught well, I see.”  
“I only learned from the best,” he returned, then went to business and pretended that he hadn't noticed her blush.  
Dogwood was especially difficult to pull from the ground, and harvesting it was a meticulous task, which is why he'd left the carob for Narsimee to fetch, as it grew on the short trees that walled in the western edge of the meadow, and was relatively easy to pick. He noticed what his teacher had—her trembling hands—and made a short detour to grab some bark from one of the white willow trees, knowing that could be used to reduce joint pain. He made a note to fix some ginger tea for her once they returned to the pharmacy that she ran out of her home.  
Narsimee was the village healer, and a young girl named Erin was apprenticing under her. Her husband was one of the village elders, and went by the name Pwyll. He was a druid, and taught the magically gifted children—he'd once taught Emrys as well, before Tremain had taken over the young warlock's schooling. The two had three children: Meredith, their eldest, who helped her father in teaching the village children; Tristan, who was a skilled craftsman and was currently teaching an apprentice named Rowan; and Chyr, who was mother to Saleet and helped her husband in baking the pastries for the villages meals.  
Meredith had two children—twins, named Byron and Celeste. They had just past into adulthood and often helped Tristan's son, Caleb, in his smithy. They crafted tools and armor for hunting and the regular visitors to the training grounds. In fact, they'd been the ones who had made Emrys' protective gear; leather chest armor with form-fitting shoulder guards, forearm and shin bracers- they'd even made his boots, which were quite comfortable if you were to ask his opinion on them. The leather was backed with a comfortable dark green material and engraved along the edges with beautiful vine-like designs—no doubt the work of Celeste, who had a side hobby as a budding artist. She often spent her free time visiting her uncle in his workshop and making all kinds of masterpieces. When she and Byron had presented him with the armor the year before, he'd been so surprised and grateful that he'd kissed them both.  
Emrys never quite seen anyone turn that shade of red, before. It was really quite funny; he'd resolved to see it again on as many faces as possible.  
“That should do it,” Narsimee nodded approvingly as she examined the contents of his basket. “Let's be off, I want to get that bath ready for my granddaughter as soon as I can.”  
They started off in the direction of the village, conversing as they walked. By then, the sun was perched just above the tree-line, and the sky glowed a beautiful amber that made Emrys think of the burning dredges of a fire that was in it's last moments. The edges of the great expanse were tinged a lovely periwinkle.  
“You're leaving soon, then?”  
He blinked down at the aged woman, who was peering up at him expectantly. He gave her a slow nod. “Hm... Yes, I suppose I am. You wouldn't mind too terribly, would you?”  
She hit him gently in the elbow with the basket that swung from her arm. “Don't be silly. I think it's wonderful that you're going to see the world. Just be sure to stay safe. Oh, it'll be so boring, gathering herbs and making medicine all by myself.”  
“I'll be sure to visit often, Narsi. There's no need to worry.” The teen laughed.  
“I don't think I'll be the one worrying, Alkanet.” She informed him, light grey eyes twinkling merrily. “Your teacher, though—I think that, with him, it's a different story.”  
Emrys sighed, shifting the basket in his arms. “I'm aware. Teacher's as paranoid as they come; no doubt he's thought up all kinds of terrible things that might happen to me on my journey.”  
“A bundle of nerves, that one is,” she agreed. “But, Emrys, I don't really think he's that wrong, is he? The world is a dangerous place, especially in this day and age.” She jabbed him in the side, and he winced. “You'll need to be careful, boy.”  
“Teacher is right to worry, but I wish he'd have an inch more trust in my abilities to look after myself,” he complained. “I understand where he's coming from, I really do. I used to be a right daredevil when I was little—”  
“You still are.”  
He rolled his eyes. “—and I still am sometimes, I suppose. But I'm older now. I know my limits and I know how to keep myself out of messy situations—can't teacher at least trust in his own teachings? I learned most of all from him.”  
Narsimee patted his arm sympathetically as they made their way into the village. “He just cares about you, is all. Don't be so aggravated about it boy—it's a good thing!”  
Emrys opened the door of her home for her, and followed after once she'd entered. “That's what I said... what I meant is, I know that! And I care for him too—though, I suppose, if he left the village for an unprecedented amount of time, I'd be worried too.” He muttered.  
The elderly woman lifted the basket from his hands and dumped the herbs in it onto the table. Emrys snapped his fingers with golden eyes, sending the basket back to it's place in Tristan's shop—he'd have to apologize for taking it later, Tristan was always so annoyed when things vanished into thin air. With any luck, the man hadn't noticed it's absence at all.  
“But teacher is unnecessarily worried.” He continued, helping her sort them out. “If he left, of course I'd worry about him. But it would be a passing worry, because I know he can protect himself!”  
“You have some points, lots of them,” Narsimee warbled in agreement, “but so does he. I suppose you'll both just have to talk it out over supper.”  
“That's what we planned on doing, yes,” Emrys informed her as he picked up the organized herbs and placed them in a corner. He grabbed the basin from against the wall and cleared a spot for it on the table, before spelling it full of cold water from the clear creek that ran along the southern point of the village. Narsimee handed him the bergamot he'd set aside, and he began rinsing them in the basin while she went off to draw a bath for Saleet, who was most likely resting upstairs. He could hear footsteps pattering over his head—presumably Chyr, who had a horrible habit of hovering over a sick person's bed in worry.  
Once he finished his task, he took the basin of murky water outside and poured it out into the smaller garden of the more commonly used herbs that Narsimee had out in the back. Erin was knelt in the soil, tending to the rosemary patch. She gave him a quiet smile.  
“Good evening, Emrys.”  
“Almost suppertime, Erin,” he agreed, stroking the coals in the fire pit into a flame. Once it began to blaze, he set the basin above it and filled it again with clean water and sat back to watch it boil.  
Erin stood up and came over, silently handing him some dried ginger roots from the pocket of her apron. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and he took them into his hand.  
“You noticed it, too?”  
She nodded. “Teacher's joints are aching again. She hasn't said anything about it yet, but she doesn't have to: it shows.”  
“I know. I brought back some white willow bark,” he said, taking the aforementioned item from the folds of his cloak. She glanced at it and smiled.  
“We can use that in the tea, then.”  
Emrys doused the fire and poured Erin a pot of the boiling water before taking the large basin inside while the older teen went about preparing Narsimee some tea. He'd speak a healing spell over it before they gave it to her, but for now he settled for carrying the basin up the stairs to the bathing room that the healer reserved for sick patients.  
She was there, with Lairgnen—another teen with the gift. He'd filled the tub with water from the creek and was helping Narsimee infuse it with the herbs he and she had gathered earlier. They both looked up as he entered, and stepped aside. Narsimee motioned for him to put the hot water into the tub, and sent Lairgnen to go and fetch Saleet from her sickbed.  
Emrys set the empty basin aside and helped the elderly healer stir the bath, adding in some parsley juice—which would aid the girl of only seven summers in her recovery. Lairgnen opened the door and entered, Saleet in his arms. Emrys took her from him and helped Narsimee undress her while the older boy lit the incense and candles that sat on the shelf along the wall—it was almost dark out. Supper would begin in another hour, so Emrys and Lairgnen would most likely arrive late.  
“Over here and help me with her hair, Alkanet.” Narsimee ordered him, and the young warlock held a cool compress to the feverish girl's forehead, keeping her bangs from her face while the healer began to wash the child. Lairgnen left to fetch Erin and took over the girl's chore while she came up to help, bringing the lavender soap with her.  
Once Saleet was clean, Emrys lifted her from the tub and held her while the two women wrapped the young girl in towels to dry her off. They redressed her in a clean gown after they finished, and Emrys carried her back to her room, where Lairgnen had just finished remaking the bed with fresh sheets. He tucked the girl back under the covers and placed the new cold compress that Lairgnen handed him over her eyes, noting that it was filled with lavender sprigs—an herb that promoted sleep. Chyr stood off to the side, watching them were her hands clasped.  
Emrys turned to the worried mother, gracing her with a kind smile. “Good evening Chyr, it's nice to see you. We've just finished with the bath—we'll give her another like it in the morning. Hopefully this treatment will work and the fever will break by tomorrow afternoon. For safety measures I took the liberty to cast a cooling spell on the compress so we won't have to replace it so quickly—that should help a long ways.”  
The woman shot him a relieved smile, reassured. “Many thanks, Seren. I think I'll take supper in here.”  
He nodded, and headed downstairs again while Lairgnen and Erin made Saleet comfortable; bringing the lit incense into her sick room, lighting the candles to ward off the dark and stroking alive a fire in the room's stove.  
“Narsi,” he hollered through the home. “I'm going to go and fetch Chyr some supper! Would you like anything?”  
“Just a leg of meat or two and some vegetables ought to sate me and Erin for now, dear,” the aging healer replied, coming in from the back. “You and Lairgnen are free to go and eat with your teachers, though.”  
He bowed his head toward her and raced off through the village, toward the dining house where the other villagers should be gathered, by now. Smiles lit up many a face when he entered, and he caught sight of his teacher immediately. As he made his way over to him, numerous voices called out to greet him.  
“Lovely night, Emrys!”  
“Seren! 'Tis good to see you!”  
“'Allo, Starlight!”  
“Evening, boy! Nice and peaceful.”  
He sent back greetings of his own and finally clasped a hand on the shoulder of his mentor, grinning up at him cheekily. “I'm to fetch Narsimee and Erin their meals. However, I do recall that we've a discussion due, when I return.”  
Tremaine gave him a short nod, before turning away to obtain himself some mead from the barrels in the corner. Emrys gathered together three plates of food and was off through the door to bring them to the pharmacy, balancing one on his forearm and kept it in place with a single glowing, golden eye, magic absent-mindedly focused on keeping it steady. Once the three women had their food, he grabbed Lairgnen and the two males made their way off to the dining house. The elder parted from him with a smile when they entered, and Emrys soon dropped into the chair next to his teacher with a plate of food for himself.  
He exchanged pleasantries with the men to his left and across from him—Owin and Niallan, respectively—and immediately dug into his meal, watching his teacher eat from the corner of his eye.  
Owin engaged him in a debate about the uses of aconite and silver beads sometime into the meal(the man was an herbalist who worked under Tywwn, the man who trained the village men to fight and protect themselves and the rest of the villagers. Niallan, a teen who'd just entered adulthood himself, joined the conversation with a few points of his own. He was an aspiring architect, and was looking into an apprenticeship under Donally, the village's builder and home repairs-man.  
Eventually, Owin and Niallan finished their meals and left, along with many other of the villagers. The dining house wasn't completely empty, but it was not as crowded as it had been for the duration of the meal. Emrys stood and went to dish himself some more greens from the serving table. When he came back, his teacher had leaned back in his chair and was stretching languidly.  
“You're due for your magus inkings soon,” the man commented, and had to keep from laughing when Emrys' eyes lit up with excitement.  
“Yes! I am, aren't I?” He grinned, gripping his fork with a barely trembling fist. “I can hardly wait for them.”  
“Have you picked out your signs yet, little fox?” Tremaine questioned him, curious. “And what markings you want?”  
The teen settled his elbows on the table, chewing thoughtfully on a slice of boiled sweet potato. “I was thinking... But I'm not exactly sure. I can't decide.”  
“You better hurry it up, then,” Tremaine advised him with a joking smile. “I'm taking you to Pwyll and Sugn later tonight.”  
He finally did laugh, while Emrys gaped at him, blue eyes wide.  
Magus inkings were a vital milestone in the life of a magic user. Sorcerers who made deals had to ink their own marks within three months of receiving their powers or their luck would turn decidedly sour. Those born with magic like Emrys was however, usually got them within seven weeks of turning fourteen. It's when their magic was most volatile.  
The markings had a simple reason for existing. They helped the magic user focus his energy and power, and gave them pathways along the person's body in which they centered around. Where the marks were placed was important, and circles and other infinity symbols were used most often so the magic didn't reach an end—it was always running along the same direct path, over and over, easy to call upon and already roaring with stamina until exhausted.  
Tremaine had his primary marking inked along the small of his back, right across his spine. It depicted the symbol of an eagle, it's wings out and before itself. The bird was encircled in a set of fire-based runes, which mingled with a few earth runes to act as a stabilizing agent. Fire was the magical element that fit with his teacher's spirit signature best.  
Emrys spirit signature fit more with water and wind—which meant that he'd need some sky runes to keep his rune-sets stable. For his primary marking, Emrys was trying to decide between his two favorite animals—a serpent, or a dragon.  
Dragons were common primary markings though, being ancient, powerful and revered. So Emrys was leaning more toward getting a snake.  
Still, this was a bit of a shock— “Y-You can't be serious,” he mumbled, blinking rapidly in the face of the cheeky look his damnable teacher was directing at him “Tonight? Teacher, it's too sudden!”  
The man only lifted his chin stubbornly. “Well. You're not leaving the village until you get them. So, since you're so eager to do just that, I thought; the sooner the better, right?”  
Emrys stared at him, but he just smiled serenely and took another sip of his mead before folding his hands on the table before him.  
Sometimes, Emrys just wanted to smack the man upside the head.  
“You're infuriating,” he stated instead, turning back to clear the rest of his plate.  
His teacher beamed proudly—as if that was something to be proud of. To him, it probably was.  
“So,” he insisted, “do you have any ideas at all? This is somewhat important, kit.”  
“I know,” the teen muttered, blue eyes narrowed piercingly at him. “I believe that I want a snake as the primary mark. A set of water runes and another of wind around my forearms. The sky runes and either be tied into them on... the backs of my hands, or on my wrists.”  
“Wrists, then.” Tremaine told him. “Or your palms. Thats were the most veins are, anyway. They'll work best along those.”  
“Veins in my wrist, teacher.” Emrys rolled his eyes, setting down his fork. “The palms have a lot of nerve endings, though. Good conductors. So I think I'll go with that...?”  
His mentor nodded, pushing his own plate away from him. “We will go over what you want exactly with Sugn. Though,” he raised an eyebrow at his student, “a snake? Are you sure?”  
The teen nodded resolutely, though. “Yes—I know what it means teacher, you don't have to remind me. But it also means good things, like rebirth, transformation, immortality, and healing. And those are what I'm meant for, aren't they?”  
Tremaine blinked, pondering that. Then, he gave Emrys a slow, thoughtful nod. “That is true. Actually, you're correct. Now that I think about it, a snake would be the perfect primary marking for you. I was actually thinking the phoenix, before.”  
“The phoenix?” The young warlock tilted his head. “Well, it has merit. But a snake would be far easier to work into a circle—” Emrys lips tilted downwards for a moment, his blue eyes darkening. Tremaine blinked, and it was gone, leaving him to wonder if he'd even seen it. “And you know I like simpler things, anyway. Phoenix primary markings are far too elaborate for my tastes.”  
His teacher tilted his head forward in consent. “Fair enough. Here, help me with these dishes. Then we'll go and see about that meeting with Pwyll.”  
Emrys obeyed, gathering the two plates into his arms as his excited mind ran through all the possibilities. He was so close to leaving the village and seeing the world, he could almost taste it. He followed after his teacher with a bounce in his step, nodding a goodnight to a sleepy looking child named Sawyer, who hung wearily off his mother's arm.  
As they helped the others clear the tables of any left over dishes, Emrys grinned. He'd have his magus markings soon—that was one step closer to what he wanted.

~ | caring, hardworking, dedicated | ~

Emrys lay on his stomach on the padded table, head resting on his arms as Sugn ran a slender finger along the upper section of his spine. “Right here, you said?” The man, just in the age of his prime, asked the young warlock, who nodded.  
“Thinking we should integrate them with some lightning sigils,” Pwyll muttered, then shook his head right after. “No, no. Those would react badly with the water runes.”  
“I think mist would be better, actually,” Tremaine piped up from over their shoulders, with a quick look at the notes Sugn had taken.  
“Center them around an earth rune to keep them stable,” Emrys suggested, and Tremaine shot him a look of pride.  
“We should have directional symbols pointing—no, here, on the shoulders blades.”  
“North at the base of his neck?”  
“Can't have South at the tailbone, it's too far away from the others.”  
“You wanted the primary marking around your neck, did you say?” Pwyll asked Emrys, who bobbed his head up and down lazily—the lavender tea taking effect. It was infused with lemon juice and the water had been steeped with a lotus leaf. It was to put him to sleep while the elders and his teacher inked his magus markings. The lemon, along with a surge of magic, would help remove any blocks on his magic and help the marks connect with his spiritual pathways, while the lotus leaf did something similar, in keeping his chakra points open in the duration of his sleep.  
“Mhm,” he sighed. “'Round my neck. Have it bite it's own tale to make the—circle ...Actually, have it's jaw open around one collarbone, and the tale hooked along the other across from it—can't you put the directional symbols in between?”  
Pwyll blinked, pleasantly surprised. “In the hollow of your throat—Ingenious idea, Emrys! It will be a bit dangerous to put it there, but... In fact, yes, we'll do just that! Should make it much easier—yes, indeed. Tremaine, you'll help me with that. Sugn, you'll ink the rune sets and the sky sigils on his palms afterward.”  
The young men nodded, and Emrys found himself drifting off just as they began to mix the ink, chanting a few spells as they stirred it together.  
“Swefn.” A cool hand on his forehead, and he knew no more.  
...Except, he did.  
“Hello.”  
Emrys blinked up at the dragon curiously, glancing around the the white, rather bleached-of-color expanse of, well, nothing they were in. It was notably lacking of any shadows, which had him wondering where exactly the light source was.  
“'Lo. Where's this?” He asked the dragon. It shifted under his gaze, shimmering red scales like blood and large, luminous yellow eyes that seemed to just stare right into one's soul.  
“Your mind.” It replied to his question slowly, almost absentmindedly as it examined him.  
The teen bit his lip, glancing around once more and taking in his surroundings in a new light. “...A bit alarmingly empty for that, I'd think.”  
The dragon paused, staring at him, before it threw back it's monstrous head and roared a deep-throated laugh.  
“Worry not, little warlock. It's a sign of power, to have nothing here. Far less of a chance for someone like, well, me to intrude, and ever reap anything of it.”  
“Then they're stored somewhere? My memories, my thoughts?”  
“Perhaps under a layer of protection or two,” the dragon tilting it's head calculatingly. “I could sense them, if I tried. But... no,” he sat back. “Never mind that, I'm here for something else.”  
Emrys crossed his arms. “Yes, do tell. Why exactly are you in my mind? On that note, how did you get here?”  
The dragon rolled it's shoulders, a rumble thrumming through it's chest. “Have care how you speak to one such as me, boy. Dragons are powerful; more than you'll ever imagine.”  
“I can imagine just fine,” Emrys muttered thoughtfully, tilting his own head and piercing the dragon's tough scales with a stare of his own. “But, you didn't answer my question. You are here, in my mind. Why?”  
“Demanding and stubborn, just as I was told you'd be,” the beast surged forward on swift, clawed limbs. It circled him like a wolf on a moonless night. Emrys glanced up, frowning. His mind didn't even have a sky.  
“You and I are to have a discussion, I suppose,” the dragon finally told him, leaning back on it haunched. “You're leaving your village, soon.”  
“I'm curious. Also, I have a destiny, everyone's told me so. How am I to fix a world that I don't even know?” Emrys asked. And truly, how would he? One couldn't have much will to fight for people they'd never even encountered before, could they?  
“Where will you go first?” The dragon ignored his question, instead asking one of it's own. Emrys sighed.  
“Wherever the road takes me, I suppose. Why, do you have someplace in mind?”  
The dragon seemed to smirk down at him. “There is one place... They call it Camelot. I think you might like it.”  
Emrys sat down, discussing Camelot and other such places. The dragon told him tales and stories—it described to him the places it mentioned, and what kind of people were there. He learned an awful lot about a king named Uther, who ruled this Camelot, and his son, Arthur.  
Emrys felt sorry for the man. The dragon had shown him an image of him, somehow. He was attractive, just in his prime—like Sugn, he supposed. But his eyes were dark and tired and lonely. He loved his son—Emrys could almost see it, somewhere in those shadowy hazel orbs. There was a rather impressive-looking scar that ran down the right side of his forehead, turning down into his eyebrow. It most likely made the man's frowns intimidating, but Emrys' hand twitched—he wanted to touch the scar, trace it with his finger tips and learn the story behind it.  
“He looks so... sad.” He told the dragon.  
The beast regarded him with wondering eyes. “...That it not normally what people first say about him.” It explained.  
Emrys frowned. “And why not? It's almost written across his face. He's... so lonely, and—and burdened. Like he's trying to hold up the sky but no one has explain to him the reason why.”  
The dragon tilted it's snout downward, eying him still. “He hates magic, and all it's users.”  
Emrys jerked back, as if he'd been slapped. His blue eyes were wide and hurt. “Bu—why?!”  
“He blames magic for the death of his beloved—and, in a sort of twisted sense of logic, it is. Uther thinks of magic, and sees sorcerers. Men who have made contracts with demons and have nothing but nefarious plans in their hearts.”  
“It's almost never a demon, though.” Emrys frowned. “Demons are too... volatile. Everyone knows they're untrustworthy; making a deal with them is—it's foolish. Sorcerers usually make deals with spirits and the souls of warlocks or druids...”  
“Uther doesn't know these things. And he doesn't like to listen. He has a law in place, for the death warrant of all sorcerers—regardless of whether they're are sorcerer or warlock or druid. All who are caught using magic are sentenced to death.”  
Emrys felt his insides freeze; it was like he couldn't breath. His throat burned, the corner of his eyes stung... “Th-they're not... w-why do you want me to go there, then? He—they'll kill me!”  
“Is it not your destiny, to change things such as this?” The dragon questioned him, beginning to circle around him once more—like he was the prey and it was what was preying.  
Emrys didn't think that was too far off, either.  
“But—”  
“Is it not your fate, to fix the world?”  
“You sa—”  
“You are to bring light into the world, are you not?”  
Emrys eyes shone; with frustration or tears or power, he wasn't sure, but his lashes were suspiciously wet as he shouted, “Yes! Yes, that is true, but... I don't want to die. It's... “ He shook his head, choking. “I can't die. I'm needed. They need me to...” He bowed his head, refusing to let any tear fall. “I-I just want the world to smile and laugh and love again, like it did in the stories teacher told me.”  
He flinched in surprise when something warm touched his head. The dragon pressed it's snout to his snowy locks, sighing. A blast of warmth shot around the warlock, and he shuddered.  
“The world need a light to banish the darkness, yes. To smile and laugh and love again, you'll need to rid it of fear and hate and depression. Uther, he is so full of all those things... Is that not a prime place to begin your mission?”  
Emrys stared up at the beat with wide, blue eyes, rimmed with slight redness. “He'll kill me,” he whispered.  
“Not unless you kill the hate first.” The dragon told him, eyes dancing. “You kill the hate, banish the darkness and sooth the fear and loneliness that you see in his eyes... Then, you can count Camelot as a victory.”  
“He hates magic,” Emrys murmured, dazed.  
“Kill the hate.”  
“H-He's scared of it.”  
“So banish the fear. Make him see that, while magic can be dangerous—there's no reason to cower from it.”  
Emrys gracelessly dropped to the floor, hugging himself. He stared listlessly at the bright—so bright, it's all white, and light, and pure—ground beneath their feet, the gears in his brain whirring too quickly for him to even knowledge. The dragon sat back and watched.  
“What about his son?” Emrys mumbled, brows tugging downward. The room around them—bright, almost too bright—began to dim. It was almost alarming to watch.  
“A young man in desperate need for a friend, I'd think,” the dragon murmured into his ear, and then Emrys' felt his heart burn dangerously.  
His vision blurred, and it felt as if all the walls were falling in on him. Voices shouted at him, hands tugged at his clothes and he felt like he was drowning, they were pulling him down—he couldn't see—  
“Emrys, wake up!”  
“Open your eyes, little one.”  
“Shh, stop crying, kit, stop crying, it's alright.”  
Hands tugged harder, and Emrys choked back a scream, fighting against them, trying to break free—no, he didn't want to fall into the dark, please no—  
“Seren, please—”  
“Help me hold him down, Tremaine, he's going to hurt himself—”  
“Emrys, breathe for me, please...”  
“It's over, boy, you can wake up now.”  
“Why is he like this? This has never happened before!”  
“Emrys is special... I suppose—Sugn! Keep his legs still, he'll fall off the table!”  
—not the dark, please, not the dark—twisting abyss, shadowing hands reaching up at him, for him, tearing at his clothes and clawing at his eyes—his mouth, his throat—no no no no, please—  
“Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare!”

~ | confident, devoted, beautiful | ~

When Emrys opened his eyes, it was to see the worried brown ones of his teacher staring down at him. The man had the young teen held against his chest in a tight, almost painful embrace, and he choked out a cry of relief as the warlock gasped for air.  
Tremaine gently released him, into the waiting arms of Pwyll and Sugn, who carefully lowered him back on the table. His teacher crawled behind him and settled him in a sitting position, holding him firmly against his chest again while Narsimee and Erin fluttered around him—Emrys almost hadn't noticed them, they were both terribly quiet, faces pale and teeth worrying their chapped lips. The elderly healer pressed a cool cloth over his forehead and Erin gently helped him drink some type of tea. It was warm and felt relaxing even as it slipped down his throat. His body went limp before he'd even noticed how tense he'd been. Tremaine's arms tightened around him worriedly, but Narsimee placed a reassuring, withered hand on his forearm.  
“Alkanet is exhausted, boy. He's alright, just tired.” But even she couldn't keep the worry from her voice.  
Emrys let a breath escape his lips, turning around to bury his face into his teacher's tunic wearily. A fair-skinned hand immediately went up to run soothing fingers through his hair, which was damp with sweat. He felt... feverish. But also not... Like something had happened, something important. What was it...? He felt the hand retreat from his hair, and instead shake his shoulder slightly. He frowned.  
“Emrys?” Sugn asked leaning over to peer at him. “Seren, can you hear us?”  
Oh, they'd been trying to speak with him. Blue eyes blinked blearily up, wincing at the bright light of the candles on the shelves.  
“Kit,” Tremaine shook his shoulder again. “C'mere, drink some of this...”  
Emrys blinked slowly, staring at the tea, before his eyes widened and he pushed the cup away. He lurched forward and tore himself from his teacher's hold, stumbling out of the house—  
“Emrys!”  
Lairgnen caught him just as he threw himself to the ground, coughing up his supper into the grass. The older boy held him steady, keeping his hair from his face and rubbing soothing circles into his back as he heaved. The others reached them then, and his teacher threw himself to his knees beside him, helping Lairgnen hold him steady.  
“Shhh, kit. It'll be alright.”  
Emrys soon found himself leaning back into Tremain's arms, panting heavily with glazed blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. He thought he heard someone talking, but he couldn't really pinpoint who it was.  
“Do you think we did something wrong?” Someone asked another someone worriedly, and a cool hand pressed over his eyes. He sighed contently.  
“No, everything is correct. I've already checked twice... perhaps we shouldn't have placed the directional sigils right there—”  
“Emrys' idea was a good one,” another voice(this time, the young warlock recognized it as his teacher's) argued. “I think this might be something else entirely... I sensed another thread of magic.”  
“Did you? I don't recall—wait, of course. Yes, yes, there was some energy spiking near his neural chakra point.”  
Someone else replied to that, hurriedly, “Do you think someone was trying to, you know, get in?!”  
“Can't be certain,” the voice seemed thoughtful. “No; for now, Narsimee, you don't mind taking him in—no, I thought not—alright, Tremaine, be a good lad and bring him here—”  
Emrys felt someone lift him up, and groaned as the entire world seemed to tilt. His teacher whispered comforting phrases that he wasn't quite able to catch, and he was carried somewhere. To Narsimee's home, he realized. Someone, his teacher, placed him in a bed and brought the covers up to his chin. A cool compress was placed just above his eyes and his nose twitched when he caught a whiff of some sort of incense—oil from Shepherd's Cub, or Mullein, his lazily awakening mind offered, mixed with some lavender...  
He blinked open his eyes, sleepily(he hadn't remembered closing them, really), and took in a deep breath of the fumes. He glanced over to see his teacher settled into the chair beside him and slowly realized that he must have fallen asleep. The raven-haired young man was leaning against the wall and the edge of the bed, head resting near his pillow and his arms crossed over his upper chest. A blanket was inattentively thrown over his legs; which were also crossed, beneath it.  
Emrys sat up with a silent yawn. He glanced around the room and noted that it was the one across the hall from the one Saleet was currently resting in. He threw back the covers and swung his legs around, slowly standing up from the bed. He knees wobbled, and he murmured wordlessly, making his way over to his teacher.  
He shook the man's shoulder, and Tremaine jolted awake with a grunt. He noticed Emrys standing in front of him, and his eyes widened.  
“Emry—”  
The warlock let a sigh escape him, and climbed into his teacher's lap, curling up and burying his face into the crook of the man's neck. Tremain gave a wordless, surprised sound, but tentatively placed a hand on the teen's back. He rubbed circled around Emrys' spin and the teen groaned.  
“What happened, Emrys? Something—something happened, once we finished the inking. When it dried, and stabilized, y-you started thrashing, and...”  
“In my mind,” the warlock murmured quietly. “He was in my mind...”  
Tremaine drew back, an alarmed look on his face. He grasped Emrys' shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Emrys, who? This is serious, kit, if someone was trying to—”  
“A dragon,” Emrys blinked, eyes clear for the first time in so many hours. “Th-there was a dragon, in my head. It spoke to me... told me things...”  
Tremaine stared at him, eyes wide. His jaw hung open precariously and he blinked a few times, almost visibly going over what he'd just been told.  
“This...” He started, slowly. “Emrys, do you know...? I mean... this is—What did he say?”  
Emrys eyes, piercing and sharper than a knife, pinned him with a determined glance. He sat up.  
“I need to go to Camelot.”


End file.
